Five Times Gregory Lestrade saved Mycroft Holmes' Life
by Copgirl
Summary: ...and one time Mycroft Holmes saved Gregory Lestrade's life. Used to be a K rating, but is now a T just to be on the safe side. Obviously I don't own any of the charaters. They belong to Sir ACD, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Heartfelt thanks go again to my wonderful Beta Jack63kids for proofing! Reviews would be lovely.
1. Chapter 1

DI Gregory Lestrade hated having to deal with a stiff before he'd had a decent cup of coffee. It was six in the morning, he was up since four thirty and coffee still eluded him somehow. On top of that he stood in one of the endless tunnels the Tube occupied, with the beheaded remains of a man almost under his feet.

Two very tired officers from forensics were trying to find what little evidence was there to find in the artificial light that illuminated the crime scene. Ever so often a flash from the camera would shed even more light on the corpse, making the scene look like something from a horror film.

The DI was just wondering when his colleague from British Transport Police could be bothered to show up when Mycroft Holmes' soft "Good morning, Gregory!" jolted him from his gloom. As usual the Politician was groomed and dressed to perfection. Although he probably had gotten even less sleep than the Inspector, he looked disgustingly well rested at this ungodly hour.

Lestrade ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble from his unshaved chin scratching the palm of his hand. "Mycroft!" He gave the man a nod. "What brings you down here?"

"Apparently this man is one of our employees." He pointed with the tip of his umbrella at the dead body.

"Um, maybe then you could wait for the chap from BTP and I can go home to catch a few hours of sleep, a shower and breakfast?" The only reward for the DI's attempted humour was a slight tilt of Mycroft's head and a questioningly raised eyebrow.

"Sorry, I'm late." James Warner from BTP materialised behind both men.

"About time!" Lestrade exclaimed.

Forensics just finished their work, packing away their materials and evidence before moving away from the body.

"Dangerous place, these intersections," Warner said. He waved in the general direction of not less than five tracks that ran parallel, disappearing in three different tunnels.

Lestrade shook his head. "One of your carriages didn't do this to him."

"Cars!" Warner corrected him.

"Fine, cars, carriages, whatever." Lestrade flapped his hands in annoyance. "He was probably killed around two in the morning. The wound looks as if the head had been hacked off with a large and very sharp object. Maybe a sword."

"A ninja then," Warner concluded.

The Inspector looked around for Mycroft Holmes, expecting the man to be rolling his eyes at the remark. He saw him crouched down in the trackbed furthest from the body, inspecting something he had discovered lying there.

At that very moment Lestrade felt the current of air on his face. There should be no traffic on the track line. They should have been all blocked. Should have been...

The rumbling of a fast approaching train could be heard clearly now. "Mycroft!" Lestrade shouted. The politician looked straight ahead at the train, like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights. The sudden light made it impossible to figure out on which track the train was approaching.

Without hesitation, Lestrade made a dash for the Government official. Just moments before a train passed, he slammed into Mycroft with his full weight, sending them both into an exceptionally large niche in the wall at the back of the tunnel. The train roared past them, showering both men with dust and dirt.

Neither of the men moved. Mycroft Holmes was pressed to the ground rather uncomfortably, some objects digging painfully into his back. Lestrade had bruised his hands when he had thrown himself and Mycroft to the ground, but was now lying cushioned from the hard ground on top of the Politician. Both men's hearts were racing, their breath ragged against each others necks. They trembled from adrenalin and the shock of this rather close call.

"Oh my god, are you alright?" Warner suddenly was there, helping both men to get up. Let's get out of here. The tracks should all have been closed down."

A few minutes later they stood on the platform of the nearest station, taking stock. Mycroft Holmes' suit was beyond saving, but beside that, only his ego had suffered bruising. In contrast the DI's hands were bleeding, the left leg of his trousers was torn and his left knee was hurting badly. And he hadn't even had any coffee yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**I decided on writing an Interlude for each chapter. There's so much more going on than just life saving. :-) The Interludes take place more or less shortly after the previous chapters. In this case Greg is still suffering from his injured knee after saving Mycroft's life for the first time.**

**Still don't own the characters. They belong to Sir ACD, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. (sob!)**

* * *

Interlude 1

"What are you doing here?" Sally Donovan greeted DI Gregory Lestrade, when he hobbled into NSY with the aid of a crutch.

"Nice to see you too." He flopped onto a chair and propped up his left leg. "I read three books this past week and one can only watch so much TV. The program is state approved national dulling. I'd rather get some of the paperwork done that's undoubtedly already piling on my desk."

"Actually there's nothing really piling on your desk. Only one file. And a parcel that came in just half an hour ago."

"A parcel?" Greg replied, his curiosity piqued. He took his crutch, and headed for his office.

He studied the parcel in question. It looked like a delivery from a tailor.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Donovan, who had followed him, asked.

Greg began to peel away the paper carefully and uncovered a charcoal grey pair of trousers, a matching jacket, a white shirt and a note, that read _'Thank you, Gregory! MH'_

"Try it on," Donovan prompted him. He gave her a look.

"I'm not going to strip for your amusement."

Sally snorted, but left the office anyhow.

Greg stripped down to his underwear and got dressed in his new shirt and suit. He didn't have a mirror in his office but as far as he could tell, the shirt as well as the suit fit perfectly.

"Sally," he called out and the door opened immediately. Donovan's jaw dropped at the sight of her boss.

She circled him slowly, taking in the sight. When she didn't say anything, Greg got a bit nervous.

"So?"

"You look ravishing!" she declared and kept eyeballing him in a rather predatory fashion. Greg blushed and decided that he had enough.

"Okay, out! You're not having me on my desk – or anywhere else." He flapped his hands, shooing her out of his office. His expression however turned to a broad smile once she had closed the door behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

2. Chapter

Mycroft Holmes was watching the forensics team looking for evidence in the yard of a terraced house in Acton, when he felt he was being scrutinized. Turning around he found himself face to face with DI Gregory Lestrade. The Inspector stood with his arms folded in front of his chest, clad in a white shirt and his usual dark suit, brown eyes aimed calmly at his counterpart.

"You need a haircut," Lestrade told the Government official.  
"And good day to you, Gregory." Mycroft tried to smooth down the hair behind his ears; a futile attempt really. He had been abroad three whole weeks, negotiating with an African country he was certain half of Britain's population had never even heard of. Getting a decent haircut there had proved to be impossible. Now the longer hairs behind his ears and on the back of his head began to curl slightly.

Having just returned from his trip, Mycroft had received information that the police were busy at an address MI6 had under surveillance. From the airport to his office he had stopped to gather first hand information.  
"Is it a new tactic, sneaking up on an innocent bystanders?" Mycroft studied the DI's face, which broke out into a broad grin.  
"I consider you neither innocent nor a bystander," Lestrade replied.

The politician lowered his gaze, his grip on the ever present umbrella tightening almost imperceptibly.

"Why don't we go inside and have a look around instead of wasting each others' time with idle chatter?"

"Sure." Lestrade nodded. He bit back the question whether Mycroft Holmes' ears had turned pink at the tips because of the word 'innocent' or 'bystander', knowing the man would tolerate only so much teasing.

They went inside the house, and the DI showed him the office where the body of Vincent Mallory, the resident of the house, had been found earlier that day. Mallory had been shot while standing in front of his open safe, built inside the wall behind a heavy oak-desk. His body had already been removed after forensics had collected evidence from the body as well as the room, and taken their usual amount of photos.

For a terrace house the rooms were spacious, and the whole interior gave an air of elegance. Lestrade stood with his back to the door and pointed out several locations on the wall in the office where they had found blood.

Suddenly Mycroft Holmes' eyes went wide in a mixture of shock and surprise, his focus aimed over the Inspector's shoulder at the entrance hall. Lestrade swirled around, bringing his body between the politician and whatever came through the door, his hand simultaneously flying to the service weapon he carried in a holster under his left arm.

Several shots rang out and seconds later three motionless bodies were on the ground. Mycroft Holmes was bleeding from a head injury, Greg had been felled by the force of several bullets and the man who had fired them now had a bullet in his head.

oOo

Several hours later Greg was sitting in his chair at NSY. He was relaying the events to his colleague DI Dimmock, who had the dubious honour of investigating and resolving the incident. Although Greg had already taken some Iboprufen he felt like he had been hit by a bus. Under his shirt his torso was black and blue. His bulletproof vest had saved his life but he suffered from a fractured rib and heavy bruising. For the next four to six weeks movement, breathing and anything else that involved Greg's ribcage would be quite painful.

As it turned out Greg had taken the force of three bullets. Having placed himself between the shooter and Mycroft, he had been thrown backwards from the impact, knocking into the politician, who in return had fallen and knocked the back of his head forcefully against the oak-desk.

The shooter himself was already in the morgue. The bullet with compliments from one of NSY finest had eliminated him for good. Since Greg had clearly acted in self-defence, Dimmock had no doubts that Gregory Lestrade's name would be cleared in no time.

A knock could be heard and a woman in a black dress entered. Dimmock's eyes went wide at the sight of her. Greg gave him he smirk.

"This is Mycroft Holmes' PA," he explained. "Anthea." He greeted her with a nod. She had texted him earlier, relying the information that Mycroft only suffered from a minor injury.

"Mr Holmes has offered you a lift home, once you're finished here."

Since Dimmock had lost his voice, Greg got up as carefully as possible. Still he couldn't prevent a groan from the pain that engulfed his whole torso. He said goodbye to his fellow DI and followed Anthea outside where a black limousine was waiting for him. She opened the door for Greg, and he climbed inside, falling rather ungracefully into the seat beside the only other occupant. He had to close his eyes for a moment, fighting the pain once more. When Greg opened his eyes again he saw that Mycroft looked at him with compassion.

"Thank you, Gregory. You undoubtedly saved my life – again."

"I won't say it was my pleasure but you're welcome."

When he looked at the politician whose gaze had drifted to something worth looking at the other side of the car, Greg noticed a dressed wound at the back of Mycroft's head. Whoever had cut his hair and shaved the area around the wound, had been quite enthusiastic, to say the least.

"When I said this morning you needed a haircut I meant something more inconspicuous," Greg observed.

Mycroft gave him a harried look.

"The doctor in question will be deported to an area of conflict where he can practise his skills."

After a moment he added with a smile, "I also arranged for the deportation of the oak-desk."


	4. Chapter 4

Interlude2

The past night had been terrible. Sleeping on his back was currently the only option for Greg. Unfortunately his torso had to be slightly elevated to make breathing possible. Greg didn't own that many pillows and his makeshift bed had been anything but comfortable. He started the coffee machine in the kitchen, and trudged into the bathroom to take a shower. When he had taken off his pyjama top he inspected his chest in the mirror. The dark blue colour of three large bruises gave his chest an appearance that matched the pain. He had just finished taking his shower and was getting dressed in workout pants and a t-shirt when the doorbell rung.

He opened the door to two furniture packers. One held a piece of paper in his hand.

"Delivery for Mr Gregory Lestrade."

"I didn't order anything," Greg told him.

"No, you didn't," the packer agreed. "A Mr Holmes did. He also paid for it, in case you wondered."

Greg blinked, slightly confused. "And what is it?" He pointed at the enormous box that sat behind the packers.

"It's a reclining chair, a really comfortable one I might point out. Oh, and we were told that in case you don't want it, we were to leave it right there." The packer pointed at the box that took up most of the space of the landing.

"I guess I don't have much of a choice then." Greg showed the men to his living room. They unpacked the recliner, gave him the small manual that explained the various functions of that piece of furniture and left. Sitting down, Greg pressed a button that elevated his feet and reclined the backrest. Very comfortable. He couldn't possible accept such a gift from Mycroft. Pondering what to do, he fell asleep before he even got around reading the text he had just received.

_'Sleep well, Gregory! MH'_


	5. Chapter 5

**Five Times Gregory Lestrade saved Mycroft Holmes' Life**

3.

The sun was sending its afternoon rays into the office of the bank, where Mycroft Holmes was signing the last of the papers. The funds he and Sherlock had invested in had needed an overhaul and he had spent the better part of the afternoon going over the details, making adjustments here and there and signing what felt like at least a hundred pages. Finally the absolute last page was signed and Mycroft called his driver, telling him he would be outside in five minutes.

He got up and shook hands with the white-haired banker. He had known the man since he was a teenager, when he had opened his first account. Mycroft took his briefcase and umbrella, opened the office door and found himself looking into the barrel of a shotgun.

He and the banker were marched into the hall where three bank employees and five customers were lying with their faces down on the cold floor, watched by two armed men. One man carried a sub-machine gun, the other a pistol. These two as well as the man with the shotgun wore identical clothes, loafers, caps, boiler suits and bandanas to hide their identities.

"Down!" both men were ordered by the man with the shotgun. Mycroft lay down on the ground, and put his head onto his crossed forearms, facing the tiled floor.

For almost fifteen minutes nothing really happened. Once in a while their captors talked to each other with muffled voices. They were calling each other One, Two and Three.

Then a forth and a fifth man showed up, both carrying bags which most likely contained money. They too were clad in the same fashion as the other three.

Those men apparently were professionals. They were calm, and reacted quite relaxed when one of the hostages on the ground moved to get a bit more comfortable.

Once a phone belonging to one of the men beeped, the situation began to change though. The talk got more animated and when one of the bank-employees moved a bit more than absolutely necessary he received a kick to the legs.

The man who was called Four made a phone call. His reaction to the person at the other end of the line displayed clearly that it didn't go as planned. Most likely the police had already arrived and prevented the immediate escape of the bank-robbers. Said Number Four pointed at Mycroft, and Number One and Three approached the man on the ground.

"You!" Mycroft suddenly received a kick to the ribs, that made him yelp with pain and surprise. He was grabbed by his arms and yanked to his feet.

"Thank you for volunteering to be shot, so we can demonstrate our determination to the filth outside," Number Four said.

"You're making a big mistake here," Mycroft told the men who began dragging him towards the entrance, for they wanted to shoot him in plain sight of the forces surrounding the bank.

Neither of the bank robbers nor the unwilling victim noticed the hostage, who had been lying under a desk half hidden by a column with all sorts of flyers, getting up slowly. Not until the man had straightened up to his full height did anybody look at him.

"Stop!"

Number Four immediately pointed his gun at the hostage who had spoken up.

"Get down or you're next."

The men who held Mycroft had stopped, and the Politician started when he saw who challenged the armed men. "Gregory," he whispered under his breath.

"I don't want to be next," the Inspector told number Four. He pointed slowly at Mycroft. "I want you to take me instead of him."

That declaration caused the confusion Greg had hoped for. When the initial assault had taken place, he had been inside the bank as a regular customer. Confronted with the armed men he had acted like he was particularly scared, crawled under a desk and begged for mercy. He had been assured that he wouldn't be hurt if he stayed on the ground. Naturally Greg had complied and managed to send a couple of texts to NSY from his phone. The reply he had received a few minutes earlier had told the DI, that an operation from the forces outside the bank was imminent. Now he only had to convince those men not to kill Mycroft Holmes, not least because MI6 would not take it kindly if one of their own was killed as a statement. Greg could envision that they would blow up the whole bank – with robbers and hostages inside – just to make their own.

Greg saw that Mycroft was shaking his head, and it took all of his willpower not to lock eyes with the man.

Number Four regarded Greg with a mixture of surprise and malice. "I could just shoot you both."

"No, you won't. You don't know how often they," he pointed to the general direction of the entrance, "need proof of your determination. Furthermore you might need to take some hostages with you on your getaway."

"But why would I rather have you killed instead of him?" Number Four waved his gun towards the Government official.

"Because you'd rather kill a cop than a man in a suit," Greg explained, finally allowing himself to return Mycroft's look for a second.

Number Four's eyes became small slits. "So, you're a cop. Trying to do some good here, eh?" He signalled his men, and they slammed Mycroft to the ground again.

Greg didn't move a muscle. He had to let the men come to him. Every second that went by counted.

The men who had held Mycroft were now at his side, grabbing his arms and yanking them behind his back. They began walking him toward the door.

"You are going back to prison," Greg said to no one in particular but again it got him the reaction he had hoped for. The men stopped, and number Four approached him.

"I don't think so," he hissed and smacked the DI with the barrel of the gun.

Greg felt the skin at his right eyebrow split open, and he dropped to the ground. He felt blood running over his face but another ten or fifteen seconds went by before he was picked up, and dragged towards the door again.

When a flash stun grenade from by SCO19 went up, he was thrown to the ground, knowing he had accomplished the task of saving Mycroft Holmes' life once again.

oOo

Greg was lying in the ambulance and about to be driven to hospital to get his laceration stitched up, when Mycroft Holmes appeared at his side.

"I'm riding with him," he told the paramedic. Mycroft folded his long legs as well as he could in the confinement of the ambulance, and watched the paramedic fussing over the Inspector. Only when they had arrived at the hospital, and were waiting for a doctor to show up, they had a moment to themselves.

"I'm personally speechless over your actions, Gregory." Mycroft said eventually. "Obviously I'm extremely grateful but please, don't put yourself in such a danger again."

"You started it," the Inspector replied.

"I..." The politician was about to get into an argument with the injured man but noticed just in time that he was joking. And even with a bleeding injury and a black eye, Greg managed such a disarming smile that Mycroft could do all but return the gesture.


	6. Chapter 6

Interlude 3

Gregory Lestrade was glad he had decided to wear his best suit – the one Mycroft Holmes had given him some month ago, after he had saved the man from being hit by a train car. Two more times it had been necessary for the DI to prevent the Government official's death, who had now invited his guardian angel to dine at an exclusive restaurant. For Greg fish and chips with a pint or two would have been okay but knowing Mycroft, the man would probably have been overdressed even if he went to a pub wearing his pyjamas.

The thought made him smile, which provoked his counterpart to raise a questioning eyebrow.

"You discovered something that appeals to you?" Mycroft asked, his blue eyes glittering.

"Err..." Greg returned his gaze, before he continued studying the menu in front of him. Half the dishes on the menu Greg didn't even know which made choosing only marginally easier.

"I'd like the sirloin steak, New York cut," he decided eventually.

"Excellent choice, Sir," the waiter, who had just materialised at their table, commented.

Mycroft ordered a steak too and chose a bottle of red wine that went well with their choice of food.

Both men made small talk until the wine was brought. The steaks arrived only minutes later. When Greg took the first bite he made such a sinful sound, that Mycroft almost drop his cutlery.

"God, Mycroft, this is fantastic." Greg took a sip of his wine, smiled and licked his lips.

"You're very welcome Gregory", the Politician replied, drowning half of his wine to sooth his nerves.

They ate in silence. However Greg produced occasional sounds that made fellow diners wonder if he was re-enacting a certain scene from the film "When Harry met Sally", while Mycroft was clearly dying from embarrassment.

When the steaks had been eaten the waiter brought the dessert menu.

In silent prayer Mycroft offered his umbrella to any god who'd make Gregory decide against dessert. He could about imagine what would happen if the man chose the mousse au chocolate which was the most delicious dessert Mycroft had ever tasted. Most certainly he would be banned from that restaurant for live.

When Greg decided on the Creme Brulee, Mycroft seriously considered faking a heart attack. Getting electrocuted with a defibrillator sounded so much more pleasant than sitting through another food orgasm Gregory undoubtedly was about to experience.

In the end Mycroft floored the bottle of wine and had a double shot of whisky, fruitlessly trying to drown the sounds Greg produced over his dessert.

When both men left the premises under the stern gaze of a seriously offended Maître d', Greg had to hook his arm around Mycroft's waist to prevent him from falling over.

They were driven to their respective homes in Mycroft's limousine.

"Thank you for saving my live again, Gregory," the drunken man slurred, smiling sweetly.

"Don't mention it," Greg replied, but Mycroft had managed to fall asleep that very moment, his head resting against Gregory's shoulder.

* * *

**For our information, dear readers: The next chapters plus interludes are already written. They need to get proofed, and I'm going to be on holiday in Botswana and Cape Town for the next three weeks. So the next chapter is due about the 2nd weekend in May. Don't think I'm going to abandon you. :-)  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Dear readers, thank you for your patience. I'm just back from beautiful Botswana and South Africa but here is - as promised - the next chapter.**

* * *

The 4th Time

Mycroft Holmes' knuckles had turned almost white from holding his phone in a tight grip. He had been supposed to be at Heathrow ten minutes ago to pick up the PM but had got stuck in what must have been London's largest traffic jam since the onset of human thought. An icy rain was bringing half of London to a screeching halt, and even the M 25 was frozen.

The limousine had finally managed to leave the M 25 and was edging its way through the roundabout that lead into Airport Way. But just a little further an accident just had turned two cars and a lorry into an obscure sculpture of metal. The road was efficiently closed and it would take at least half an hour or longer to untangle the mess.

Mycroft's phone rang, and when he hung up a minute later his day had been saved. The PM who was coming back from Denmark wouldn't make it until much later that day because of the weather conditions. He would meet with Mycroft the following day. The meaning of that news took a while to sink in. He had the rest of the day off. Mycroft blinked and tried to remember the last time he had had half a day off. He shook his head. It had been a while, that was for sure. He told his driver he could relax, that he was in no hurry anymore and that he would liked to be driven home. A hot shower, dinner, a glass of wine, a good book, an open fire. The sky was the limit that afternoon.

Lowering the window of the limousine and sticking his head out for a quick look he could see that the fire brigade and a tow-car had arrived to clear the street. Shivering from the cold he pulled his head back inside and close the window again. Making himself comfortable Mycroft allowed his eyes to close for a while.

oOo

Gregory Lestrade was in a foul mood. For once nobody haunted the streets of London, murdering people. Unless one counted those who willingly used their car in these weather conditions. He had been sitting in his office with a cup of coffee that had once been actually hot instead of lukewarm, leafing through some paper work, when the Senior Chief Superintendent had walked in. The Senior Chief Superintendent had volunteered half of NSY to help the traffic police. And now Greg found himself in a patrol car trying to get to his designated area at Heathrow Airport.

At least the road leading from the M 25 to Airport Way had been gritted so he could actually accelerate without sending the car into an immediate spin. Not that he had to do much accelerating. If anything he inched forward every other minute. And that had been before the accident. He tried to rein his impatience. It wasn't his fault he was stuck in the gridlocked roundabout.

Just a few cars down he caught sight of a familiar looking black limousine. Greg blinked in surprise, when an even more familiar ginger-haired head was stuck out of a side window, only to disappear inside again quickly. He hadn't seen Mycroft Holmes in recent weeks and realized that he missed him, not least for his wit. Greg was just considering abandoning the car and walking over for a chat when he noticed a massive SUV coming in from Horton Road.

The driver obviously had lost control over his vehicle that came careening towards the roundabout. Under no circumstances would the driver be able to avoid collision. The SUV would skid into the waiting cars, most likely into the limousine Mycroft Holmes was sitting in. Mycroft's driver would have no chance to prevent a collision, for the waiting cars stood bumper to bumper. Without giving his actions another thought, Greg accelerated the patrol car and changed onto the left shoulder to intercept the SUV.

He managed to get right between the SUV and the limousine before the SUV crashed into the patrol car's side. The patrol car was shoved against the limousine but the occupants of that vehicle were only shaken up. The patrol car was another matter altogether. The SUV's reinforced bumper had smashed right into the passenger's door, distorting the whole vehicle. The airbags had been triggered, cushioning the impact for Greg only a little. Especially as he'd been knocked sideways.

Fortunately for Greg, people from the fire brigade were nearby to provide immediate help. They took their heavy tools and began cutting away the car's door that was badly twisted from the impact. Within fifteen minutes Greg, who was barely conscious, was pulled out of the patrol car, and put into an ambulance.

Instead of taking a hot shower and enjoying a quiet evening at home, Mycroft Holmes spent the rest of the day in hospital, hovering over the Inspector who was treated for a light concussion, bruises and a seriously sprained right wrist.


	8. Chapter 8

Interlude 4

Greg was sitting in his recliner, reading the newspaper. He had been reading the article about the traffic accident he had been involved in for the third time and still had trouble believing what it said. Apparently even before the accident the driver of the SUV had already accumulated enough points that his driver's licence should have been withdrawn for several months. Now he would probably receive a ban for several years. The driver though swore by everything he held sacred that he had never ever received a single point. He couldn't even begin to understand how that data had got into the Government's computer.

Greg did have an idea on that matter but it was difficult to think with a rumbling stomach. He was glad to be out of the hospital after a couple of days but his right hand and wrist were wrapped in bandages and hurt like hell. As he happened to be right-handed, cooking was a task he wasn't really looking forward to. He could always order take-out but he was neither in the mood for pizza nor Asian food. When he was a boy his mum had often made bangers and mash after he had injured himself playing football or fell off his bike. Comfort-food was what he craved right now. 'Yes, something home-made would be really nice,' thought Greg.

The doorbell rang. Considering what had happened in the past, Greg wondered if Mycroft might have had the idea of sending over some pizza or the like. However when he opened the door he found the man himself standing there.

"Good evening, Gregory. Mind if I came in?"

"Of course not. Good to see you."

Greg stepped aside to let him enter his flat and closed the door. Only when Mycroft had hung up his coat Greg noticed the bag his visitor had brought.

"I thought you might be hungry," Mycroft told him, holding up his bag.

Greg shook his head and laughed. "If I knew there was such a thing as a mind-reading camera, I would consider checking this flat. How do you always know what I need?"

The politician crooked his head. "It is merely a logical assumption. Based on your injury and being right-handed you would have trouble cooking."

They walked into the kitchen where Mycroft extracted a cooking pot from the bag and set it on the stove. "It only needs warming up," he told the surprised Inspector.

Greg couldn't believe it. He lifted the lid and the smell of chicken soup immediately filled the small kitchen. "Did you cook it yourself?"

"Quite right." Mycroft made a droll face. "I thought you might like something Holmes-made."


	9. Chapter 9

The 5th Time

DI Gregory Lestrade informed Doctor W. J. Peters of his rights while attaching the handcuffs to his wrists. At the same time he tried not to look at Sherlock Holmes' bare bottom. The consulting detective was lying sprawled on the floor with his face down, wearing nothing but a hospital gown, while John Watson was hovering over him.

Doctor W.J. Peters, head physician of the health care centre of South London, had effectively removed four people from the world of the living over the course of only one month, disburdening them and their families of most of their worldly goods in the process. Once Sherlock Holmes had received all the information, he had taken himself to the clinic, of course without informing Greg about his plans and whereabouts.

Fortunately the consulting detective suffered only from a light concussion. However from the looks John Watson threw the Inspector, he held him personally responsible for every bruise and scratch Sherlock had received.

Not sooner than Lestrade had left his captive in the capable hands of two uniformed police officers, his mobile buzzed. Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade's shoulders drooped visibly. He didn't even wonder how Mycroft knew about Sherlock's injury, only considered what beating he could possibly receive for an action he hadn't even been informed about.

"Good day, Gregory. I wonder if you have time to drop by my office today?" Mycroft Holmes' soft drawl didn't give away a single ounce of emotion.

_His office? Shit!_ Greg suspected he'd probably end up in a Siberian gulag.

"Do I have time to fetch a change of clothes and my toothbrush?" the Inspector asked.

Over the phone he could almost hear Mycroft's eyebrows heading for his hairline.

"Forget it. I'll be there shortly." Greg hung up and went for his car.

Half an hour later he was led into the inner sanctuary of the British Government – Mycroft Holmes' office. The men shook hands.

"Would you care for some tea and biscuits?" Mycroft inquired.

"Last meal before I'm going to get deported?"

"This is not about Sherlock," Mycroft said. Naturally he knew about his brother's actions and the resulting concussion but he didn't hold the Inspector responsible. "I want to show you something." He waved at the laptop on his desk.

"Oh." Greg relaxed visibly. "In that case I'd very much like some tea." He walked round the desk to look Mycroft over the shoulder. The government official ordered tea for his visitor and himself and started a video on his laptop.

Greg all but crawled onto Mycroft's lap when he recognised the people on the screen.

"This is Collins. He got transferred to my division just six month ago. Came from London Central." Greg stabbed his finger at the screen. "What's he doing with him?" The other man in the video was Armand Alvarez, involved in smuggling and human trafficking.

"Your man Collins is the reason..." Mycroft interrupted himself when he heard a knock on the door.

"Come in!"

The door opened and a man came in, carrying a tray with tea and a few biscuits to the desk. Once the man had left, Mycroft continued.

"Collins has gambling debts. Alvarez practically owns him. It comes as no surprise that during the operation last week you came up empty handed." Mycroft's voice was soft and held no allegation but the Inspector still felt responsible.

"I should have seen it. Surely something about Collins' behaviour should have raised my suspicion."

Mycroft had his best poker face in place. He knew that one of own men was involved with Alvarez too. He didn't know who yet and though he trusted the DI more than any other Yarder, he was not about to tell him.

The DI walked around the desk, and flopped down in the chair opposite.

"Tea, Gregory?" Mycroft rose to his feet and picked up the teapot. Not sooner than he had lifted the teapot from the tray, an explosion threw both men to the ground.

Greg's ears were ringing but besides having been knocked over, he had remained unharmed.

The office's door flew open and employees came running in.

"Mycroft?" Greg asked, when he was helped to his feet by one man.

"We need an ambulance!" somebody shouted.

Greg pushed away from the man who had helped him getting up, and went to the other side of Mycroft's desk. The politician was lying motionless on his back, small splinters from the teapot had hit him mostly in the chest but a large shard had ripped through his trousers and left a deep and seriously bleeding wound in his right upper thigh. The leg of his trousers was already soaked in blood. The employee kneeling beside his boss, looked helplessly at the Inspector.

"Get a first aid kit, now!" Greg shouted.

He went down on his knees and ripped of his belt. He looped it around Mycroft's leg to apply a tourniquet above the wound. The employee was back within seconds, and Greg applied a makeshift dressing.

"Hold up his leg, that should help reduce the loss of blood." The employee complied, and fortunately only a couple of minutes later two paramedics came running into the office. Greg immediately made room for them.

While the paramedics were busy with their initial check on Mycroft, Greg took hold of an older man who had entered the office.

"There was a man who had brought us tea. The teapot or the tray exploded, so I presume he's the one responsible for this." The man nodded, talked quietly to one of the employees and left again.

"Anybody know his blood type?" one paramedic shouted.

"AB negative," came the answer.

"Shit! Anybody here with AB negative?"

"Yes, me," Greg answered. He was the only one.

A doctor came running in, and managed to treat the injury, stopping it from bleeding any further.

"This is all makeshift but it has to do until we get him into surgery. First we have to stabilize him. He lost too much blood already."

The doctor quickly crosschecked that Mycroft's and Greg's blood indeed were matching before setting up everything for immediate blood transfer.

"How much does he need?" Greg asked, while the doctor inserted the needle in Mycroft's arm.

"At least a litre and a half, better two litres. He has lost quite a lot of blood. His vital signs are not looking good."

"Take it from me," Greg offered.

The doctor smirked. "Sorry, can't take more than a litre. Otherwise I put you in danger." Greg thought for a moment. He offered the doctor his left arm to insert the needle to start the blood flow.

That was the crux with having a rare blood type. Only one per cent of the British population had AB negative. Donors were difficult to get. Sherlock was still in hospital with the concussion. Sherlock and Mycroft shared the same blood type but there was no way they would use an injured patient.

Minutes ticked by, while the paramedics and the doctor worked to stabilize Mycroft. A device beeped. The doctor moved in to extract the needle from Greg's arm but found himself looking at the gun the Inspector had pulled from his holster.

"What are you doing?" the doctor demanded, taking a step backwards.

"Sorry," Greg apologized, "but I can't allow that oath of yours to get in the way of saving his life. He needs two litres of blood, you take it from me."

The doctor understood that no argument would change Greg's mind. "This is madness." He looked into the DI's determined face. "I'll get a second ambulance - for you! I'll hook you up on a drip, and once you've passed out, which shouldn't take too long, I will stop the blood-transfer and you get a refill with this." He showed Greg a bag of ringer solution.

The Inspector nodded. His pulse was weakening rapidly and his respiratory rate kept increasing. Greg began to feel dizzy fairly quickly, and hoped that he could manage to donate enough blood for Mycroft to survive before he passed out.

oOo

When Greg came round he was in an ambulance that was heading for the hospital. As the doctor had promised, a drip was hooked up to his vein, providing the fluids he needed. They would keep him for a night, and since Greg had a splitting headache he really didn't mind.

Later that evening the doctor Greg had threatened with the gun came to see him.

"Surgery went well on your friend. He should be out and about in no time."

"He's not my friend," Greg replied. "Only an acquaintance."

"Of course." The doctor clearly didn't believe him.

"Anyway, that was a foolish stunt you pulled. It could have cost your life."

Greg shrugged. "It felt right doing it though. And I apologize again for threatening you."

"I won't press charges," the doctor told him.

Greg sighed with relieve. No matter how noble his cause, that action could have cost him a demotion or even his badge.

The doctor left, and Greg fell asleep right away.


	10. Chapter 10

Interlude 5

"Hey, Mycroft, how are you doing?" Gregory Lestrade got up and came around his desk when the politician walked into his office. Mycroft was still limping slightly and used his umbrella as a cane every few steps.

"I'm much better, Gregory. Thank you. I was wondering if you were free for lunch."

The DI pointed to the chair opposite his desk. "Sit down for a moment. I need to send this", he waved a folder at Mycroft, "on its way."

Half an hour later both men sat in a small café, tea and sandwiches in front of them.

"Your leg is healing okay?" Greg asked, after having wolfed down half of his sandwich in two bites.

"Yes, it does. Ghastly though how long it takes for such a small wound to completely heal," Mycroft replied.

"Small wound?" Greg choked on his tea. "Myc, that wound was not small but deep and almost got you killed. It needs time to heal properly."

The Government official blinked. Gregory had called him Myc, and besides the fact that this had been a first and rather unexpected, he was surprised that he really didn't mind. He took a bite from his sandwich, chewing thoroughly before washing it down with a mouthful of tea.

The Inspector watched him carefully. Clearly something was on Mycroft's mind.

"Okay, spit it out," he said eventually.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Even I can hear you thinking," Greg told him. "What is it?"

Mycroft pushed away the plate with the rest of his sandwich and folded the napkin in front of him. Then he propped his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his folded hands.

"I'd like to know why you keep saving my life. It there something you want from me?"

Greg leaned back in his chair in surprise. His brown eyes studied Mycroft's face, trying to figure out where that question came from. The Inspector knew the man was serious. Brushing away that question with a joke, wasn't an option.

"Well, let's see." Greg ran his fingers through his hair and tilted his head. "I keep saving your life because somehow your life is threatened quite a bit. I keep saving your life because that's what I do. I'm a cop. One of the good guys." He shrugged and grinned slightly embarrassed. "I guess I can't help it."

He downed the rest of his tea, and signalled to the waiter for a refill.

"And on the topic of what I might want from you, the only thing I can honestly say that I don't want but would like to have, is your friendship."

Mycroft frowned. He had no doubt that Gregory's words were as honest as they could be but they confused him nonetheless. People didn't ask for his friendship. He made them nervous – a fact that he secretly enjoyed quite a bit. People wanted him around for his powers, his influence, his money. But then there was Sherlock who was as prickly as he was, and he had managed to find a friend in John Watson. A man who appeared plain and simple at first but consisted of so many layers even Mycroft doubted he had seen them all yet. And John Watson considered Sherlock of all people his best friend. Could this be the dawn of a new age? An age where even the Holmes' brothers had friends?

Suddenly Mycroft felt very self-conscious. "I don't think I have much to offer when it comes to being somebody's … um … your friend."

Greg couldn't help but smile. "You want to have it? Ok, here it is. Yes, you can be quite a prick. I hate it when you're all power and muscle to have everything your way. But I know you're one of the good guys too. That and the fact that we both somehow manage to care for that annoying brother of yours are what we actually have in common."

Greg acknowledged the refill of his teacup with a nod before he continued. "You're smart and know your way around. I feel I can rely on you if necessity should require it and although I often feel like an idiot being around you, you help me better myself."

He took a sip of his tea. "Oh, and you always look quite spiffy in those suits," Greg added with a wink.

All Mycroft could do was prevent his jaw from dropping all the way down to the top of the table. He felt heat rising to his face. Honest compliments hardly came his way. And he felt complimented by Gregory's words. Even when he had called him a prick.

Mycroft couldn't prevent a smile invading his face and he returned the Inspector's gaze. Suddenly he had the urge to finish his sandwich.

"Thank you, Gregory. I'd very much like being your friend."

The politician emptied his plate and eventually he licked the last bit of cheese from his fingers – something he only allowed himself to do in the presence of a friend.


	11. Chapter 11

Greg saved Mycroft five times and now it's time for the British government to return the favour.

* * *

The call came on a dismal Tuesday evening in late April. A bank near the Tate Gallery had just been robbed. DI Gregory Lestrade and two of his team members were in the vicinity and they arrived together with two more teams from the Met. A man came running out of the bank and told them the robbers had left just a couple of minutes ago. They couldn't have got very far as they had ran off by foot instead of jumping into a waiting car. One team accompanied the man inside the bank to get more details and to make sure what he had said was true while the other police officers spread out. Other patrol cars arrived and went searching in the neighbourhood.

While DI Dimmock was absent due to an injury of the knee that would keep him away from duty for three month, Greg had teamed up with DI Johannson who was helping out at NSY. Johannson had another year until retirement. He was a friendly man who was always willing to work but he felt his age and wasn't half as agile as Greg. Therefore when both men found themselves suddenly face to face with two of the robbers, it was Greg who ran after them when they bolted, leaving it to Johannson to call for backup.

The robbers ran up onto the Millennium Bridge and Greg decided that he was getting too old for this. Since he had stopped smoking and was using nicotine patches ever so often, his stamina had improved again. He still couldn't understand why it had to be him who had to chase them by foot.

They were more than half way across the bridge when one of the robbers slipped on the remains of an icecream bar probably dropped by a small child. The man stumbled into his crony, and both went down. Greg was upon them within seconds. Unfortunately a class of school children who were approaching from the other side of the bridge seemed to think the DI and the robbers were actors who were rehearsing for a scene in a film. The children came running towards them making it impossible for Greg to keep both robbers at bay with his gun. One of the robbers seized the opportunity to kick the Inspector's ankle, and Greg went down. Immediately the other robber was on top of him. Greg just got a grip of the man's collar and was prepared to throw him off when the other kicked him in the temple. A few more well aimed kicks followed and Greg was unconscious. He never saw the robbers exchanging looks before they picked him up and threw him over the balustrade. He landed on the cables that ran along the side of the bridge but one of the robbers actually followed him, and shoved the unconscious man off the cables and into the Thames twelve metres below. Then the robbers continued on their flight, running past the school children who meanwhile had understood that this had been anything but a rehearsal. The children and pedestrians who had seen what had happened did nothing but look down from the bridge in shock.

oOo

Just a little earlier Sherlock Holmes, with John Watson in his wake, had met up with Sherlock's brother Mycroft on Bankside Pier. Mycroft had managed to cajole Sherlock into retrieving some stolen files for him. Why Sherlock had insisted on meeting him on the pier, the government official couldn't even begin to understand. For once John Watson knew that Sherlock had insisted because the pier was far from where Mycroft's last appointment had been just to thoroughly annoy him. Furthermore one of Sherlock's endless acquaintances who owed him, had opened a pub within walking distance. They would get free portions of fish and chips after the meeting with Mycroft.

They were standing on the pier and bidding their good-byes when Sherlock recognized Lestrade on the bridge.

"There's Gavin," he told John and his brother, pointing at the figure that just caught up with the robbers.

"His name is Gregory," Mycroft corrected Sherlock automatically, while searching the bridge with his eyes.

Both Mycroft and John squinted their eyes. "Did you really see him?" John asked.

"Of course I did." Sherlock sounded offended.

When the body of the Inspector was flung over the balustrade, followed by another person, all three of them were frozen for all but a second. Forseeing what was about to happen, Mycroft had already shrugged out of his coat and toed off his shoes. The moment Greg's body crashed into the icy water of the Thames, he was already diving head first off the pier, heading for the body.

"What the fuck..."John shouted, when he saw the elder Holmes swimming with amazing speed towards the position where the body had hit the water.

"Sherlock, has he been swimming in the Olympic team, or what?"

For once pride could be heard in Sherlock's voice when he answered. "He could be. Would probably stand a good chance to win a medal. At university Mycroft took up swimming. The first thing he insisted on when he came back, was having a pool installed in the basement of our house. He probably developed webbing between his toes from all that swimming."

During Sherlock's explanation John had been dialling 999. They would need an ambulance for Greg as well as Mycroft. The Thames couldn't have more than eight to ten degrees. Both men would loose body heat quickly in the chilling water and suffer from hypothermia.

Mycroft clearly felt the cold water but all he could think about was reaching the position where his friend's body had disappeared, as quickly as possible. He would have had no chance if he hadn't been such an excellent swimmer. The tide had begun moving out about an hour ago and the current was strong. He kept his eyes trained on the position where Gregory had sunk under the surface, calculating where the current would position the body. When he reached the spot he dove. The icy water was weakening him quickly. He knew he had only so much time left until his muscles would cramp from the cold.

Nothing. Mycroft ascended, gasping for air before deciding on another position, about ten meters further down the river. He could only feel around in the water. The Thames was much cleaner than it had been some years ago but underwater visibility was very poor. And without diving goggles he could barely make out shapes within an arm's length. His lungs were screaming for air when he emerged again. Mycroft knew he would have only one more chance to find Gregory. Again he dove, stretched out his hands and began swimming with the current. And suddenly he felt fabric on the back of his left hand. Another stroke to the left, and he felt a body. Gripping what felt like an arm he took hold of it and ascended to the surface. Paddling with his legs, he pulled the man's head above the surface but Gregory wasn't breathing. An icy hand was gripping Mycroft's heart and began to squeeze. No! No! No! This couldn't be happening!

The current had dragged both men further along, and the north bank of the river was the next possibility for getting out of the water. The politician mobilized every last ounce of his strength, propelling them both towards the bank. When he felt the ground under his feet he angled himself to draw the limp body onto his shoulders. He stood up and managed to walk the last couple of metres towards the stony shore.

Greg's head was hanging downward, and the water that had entered his stomach and lungs was running from his mouth.

Shivering from the cold and exhaustion, Mycroft lowered Gregory's body down as gently as possible. He tried to check for a pulse but knew with his hands being beyond cold he wouldn't feel a pulse even if it nipped him in the butt.

Mycroft tried to remember everything he had ever learned about resuscitation, while ripping away Gregory's shirt. He placed his hands on the hard and unmoving plain of Gregory's chest and began pumping. He counted to thirty before moving up, stretching Gregory's neck and placing his mouth over his. Twice he blew his breath slowly and deliberately into the lifeless body, watching the chest heave both times.

He kept trying to resuscitate Gregory until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Help in the person of John Watson, who had run over the bridge as fast as possible, had arrived.

"Sherlock is waiting for the ambulance to instruct them where to find us. You are doing fine," John encouraged Mycroft.

As Mycroft was just kneeling beside the Inspector's head, John began the cardiac massage, leaving the mouth-to-mouth to Mycroft. They fell into a rhythm, with John checking the pulse ever so often. John saw that Mycroft was shaking from exhaustion, only determination keeping him from keeling over. The doctor knew better than to even suggest that he should fully take over.

How long they had been working on the body, John didn't know but suddenly he felt something.

"Mycroft, stop." He held his fingers to the Inspector's throat. There is was. A pulse. Weak but steady, and he had begun breathing on his own again too. Smiling slightly, John grabbed Mycroft's arm and gave it a squeeze.

For a moment the elder Holmes rested his forehead against Gregory's before he finally dropped to his side, utterly exhausted. He hardly noticed when Sherlock arrived with two paramedics in hot pursuit. Sherlock wrapped his brother into his beloved Belstaff, pulling him close to keep him warm until the next ambulance arrived.

* * *

Yes, you can argue about including "the kiss of life" but since it appears (to me) the rules of dos and don'ts keep changing ever so often, Mycroft might have had his latest first aid instruction at the time I did when including mouth-to-mouth was taught.

One thing Mycroft certainly didn't do was humming or singing "Staying Alive". As far as I am concerened that song "belongs" to Moriarty.

The story itself is almost done. Almost. To complete the story there's going to be an epilogue sometimes next week.


	12. Chapter 12

**Epilogue**

It was grey outside and raindrops were tapping against the window when Greg woke up. He looked at his alarm clock. 6.23pm. He had slept for only one hour. Knowing he couldn't go back to sleep, he got up and went into the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, opened it and took a swing. Taking the beer into the living room he sat down on the sofa and switched on the TV.  
Half an hour later he had neither drunk his beer nor seen anything that happened on TV. He left the beer on the table and the TV switched on before he rubbed his hands over his face, got up and went into the bathroom.  
Bloodshot eyes with dark circle underneath starred back at him from the mirror. He was so very very tired but sleep kept eluding him since that day he had been killed. He felt himself shiver. Yes, he had been killed. If it hadn't been for Mycroft Holmes who had first rescued him from drowning and afterwards resuscitated him, he would be in the morgue right now. No, he corrected himself. He would already be buried.

Ever since he had been moved from ICU to a regular ward in the hospital he had problems sleeping. He kept waking up after one or two hours, mostly drenched in sweat, gasping for breath and shaking from a nightmare he couldn't remember. The only feeling that was always present was terrible loneliness. The feeling he had been abandoned by everybody.  
Greg was certain his dream was about drowning. He had been unconscious when he had been dumped into the Thames, and he was a little bit grateful that at least he couldn't remember the pain that most certainly came with drowning.

Dangerous situations were an occupational hazard for a DI. In the past he had been stabbed, beaten, shot; but until now nothing had left him as scared. Yes, he admitted to himself. He was scared. Badly. And he had no idea what to do about it. He fought back the tears that stung in his eyes.

The doctor in the hospital had told him he should take therapy to get over the trauma. But even the thought of talking to a total stranger about his fears and his feelings was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

Greg threw his pyjamas into the basket with the rest of the dirty clothing and stepped under the hot spray of the shower. It took a while until the hot water, hitting his neck and shoulders, began to take effect. He leaned his forehead against the tiles, taking steady breaths. When he left the shower his skin was warm and red. After he had towelled himself dry he wrapped himself in his dressing gown, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. He had his hand on the handle of the freezer when he remembered that a bottle of beer was still in the living room, hardly touched. He switched off the TV, and emptied the bottle in the sink.

The doorbell rang, and he gave a start. Running his fingers through his hair he went to the door and upon opening it he found Mycroft Holmes standing there. He hadn't seen him since IT had happened. First Mycroft had suffered from a bad cold that had followed hypothermia. He had been too ill to visit Greg, and they had only talked over the phone a couple of times. After he had recovered, the government official had needed to go back to work to tie up some loose strings concerning a treaty he had worked on before.

"Good evening, Gregory," Mycroft greeted him, studying him from the still moist hair to the naked toes that curled into the carpet.

Greg stood there, his hand still on the door, starring at Mycroft, not saying anything. For half a minute both men looked at each other and then Mycroft did something he hadn't done in a very long time. He took a step forward and pulled Greg into a tight embrace, hugging him to his chest. He knew the Inspector was a proud man and for a moment he wondered if his interpretation of Gregory's body-language had been wrong. But after only a moments hesitation Gregory hugged him back and held on to him for dear life.

How Mycroft had managed to manoeuvre him into the living room and onto his sofa, Greg didn't know. He found himself propped up against a pillow, wrapped into a woollen blanket. Mycroft sat unusually close and Greg was glad to have his reassuring presence right by his side.  
"When was the last time you slept properly?" Mycroft asked eventually.  
"Before... Before it happened." Greg struggled through the short sentence. He looked up, discovering a surprising amount of compassion in the politician's gaze.  
"I'm scared, Myc. I haven't been that scared in my whole fucking life."  
"Do you want to tell me about it?" Mycroft asked.  
Greg nodded and began to talk. He talked and he cried and then he talked some more. He confessed his fears, his desperation and his loneliness. When he stopped eventually he was utterly exhausted. A cup with hot, sweet tea was shoved in his hand. Greg allowed himself to lean against Mycroft who had sat down right next to him again.  
"How did you manage it?" Greg asked softly, once he had taken a few careful sips from his tea. Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow.  
"You almost died from that wound in your leg some month ago. How did you not break down like I did?"  
Mycroft smiled slightly. He could have given him plenty of explanations. How different they were, that the situation had been different etcetera, etcetera but it was not the answer Gregory needed to hear.

"The truth is, it helped me to know that you were watching over me like nobody ever has done before. Don't think I don't know about the stunt you pulled, threatening the poor doctor with your gun to save my life."  
Gregory avoided his gaze, looking slightly bashful at his teacup.  
"Not that I'm not entirely grateful," Mycroft added.

Plucking away some invisible specks of dust from the leg of his trousers Mycroft repeated. "Yes, Gregory, I recovered easily from that threat and those before because I knew you would be there if I needed you." Mycroft paused, looking at the man sitting beside him from the corner of his eyes before he added, "And now I'm here for you."  
Greg processed the information a minute or two before he stifled a yawn.  
"I need to sleep. Would you," he felt himself blush, "would you please stay with me?"  
A smile touched Mycroft's lips. "I have no intentions of going anywhere."  
Greg slid down, curling up to lie on his right side, the pillow his head rested on, snug against Mycroft's left thigh. He fell asleep within seconds. Mycroft's hand rested loosely on his shoulder, and with his friend now watching over him, Greg could finally sleep peacefully.

FIN

* * *

Well, this is it. The story is done, and I thank all those who read it, took/take the time to review, follow(ed) and add(ed) it to their favourite list. And, of course, thanks go again to Jack, my wonderful Beta for all the beta-ing and input.

The next story is well under way. Stay tuned. :-)


End file.
